


Half-Remembered Dreams

by MissMollyBloom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3736132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMollyBloom/pseuds/MissMollyBloom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end the greatest threat to Molly's life as a result of her relationship with Sherlock didn't come from a master criminal like Moriarty, nor was it from a minor thug hell-bent on revenge, or even from Sherlock himself - at least not directly. The threat which caused Molly to be rushed into emergency surgery came entirely from within.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic - or, at least my first in this fandom and my first in almost two decades (Eeep! That makes me feel old!). I'm really keen for some feedback. This work is unbeta'd - so please forgive any glaring errors!
> 
> I was inspired by a scene from Aaron Sorkin's ill-fated show Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. I'll credit the scene when I get to it (saying anything more now will give the game away!). It's a cute moment which I thought would work well between Sherlock and Molly - and somehow as I was thinking about it a whole fic grew around it.
> 
> I hope you like it.

In the end the greatest threat to Molly's life as a result of her relationship with Sherlock didn't come from a master criminal like Moriarty, nor was it from a minor thug hell-bent on revenge, or even from Sherlock himself - at least not directly. The threat which had caused Molly to be rushed to casualty and rushed into emergency surgery came entirely from within.

As he stood in the doorway and gazed at her pale form clad in a hospital gown that only added to her appearance of helplessness, Sherlock wondered if it had all been worth it. If he knew that night over a year ago that his choices would lead them on a path that led to this day, would he change anything?

And if he could change it, would he be strong enough to?

Would he really be able to stop himself from knocking on her door that night, knowing as he did that it was meant to be his last night in England before his protracted death sentence. When faced with the reality of death - even a death promised to come in three months’ time - he sought out the woman who had helped him die before. Somehow, the idea of equating Molly with death comforted him, and it was comfort he sought that night as he stood, hand poised over her buzzer.

Moving towards Molly as she lay on the hospital bed one year later, not yet recovered from general anesthesia, Sherlock realised that the moment before the buzzer was pressed was the moment which directly led to this one now as a nurse busied herself taking blood samples and testing blood pressure and attaching IV bags to Molly's arms - arms which carried more bruises than he'd noticed before that day.

But he did press her door buzzer that night, and he can still remember the worry in her voice over the intercom, matched only by the widening of her eyes when she saw him, a broken man in her doorway. She could always see him.

 "I could have picked the lock, but I didn't think you'd appreciate having a recovering drug user break into your flat at midnight."

 She ignored his attempt at humour, pulling her robe more tightly around herself, an armour as well as a shield from the cold air which entered her apartment as he did.

 "What's wrong?" She asked, unmoving.

 By way of answer he brushed passed her, sitting down on her lounge in the same spot he always did. He stared at a fireplace which now held nothing but embers, mere ghosts of heat.

 She joined him, pulling an afghan around herself, more armour.

 "Sherlock?" She spoke only his name, but conveyed so much - a question and a warning and a hint of anger mixed with concern.

He couldn't look at her, eyes fixed on the fireplace, wishing it back to life - a wish he held also for himself. He didn't know how long he has been silently staring before she reached out. Her hand on his was an electric shock or a jolt from an ECG.

His eyes met hers and he knew he couldn't lie.

 "I'm going to die."

 His tone was so final, so defeated, making it clear that there would be no miracle this time, nor would she be able to save him.

 "What's happened?"

He told her everything - about Magnussen and Mary, about convenient drug relapses and fake fiancées, about Christmas in the Cotswalds and murder most foul. Each event recited like a series of facts, his facade only breaking when he reached the moment he pulled the trigger. Pausing briefly to hide the emotion in his voice, he turned away from her compassionate gaze. He couldn't look at her, didn't want to see the moment he stopped being her hero, or whatever it was she'd created him to be, and discovered he was a cold-blooded murderer as well as a high-functioning sociopath. He knew she wouldn't be able to hide the disappointment in her eyes. He could always see her, too.

Recounting the moment he pulled the trigger was like an incantation, recreating the event before his own eyes - the weight of the gun in his hand, the sting of the wind whipped up by Mycroft's helicopter, the look of shock on John's face and the pool of Magnussen's blood slowly forming on the pavers around his now unrecognisable head. Spilled like the secrets he dared to share with the world.

Molly must have sensed he'd left her then, travelling back to that moment outside Magnussen's Palatial Appledore estate, and it was her touch which brought him back to her. A soft hand on his shoulder made him turn to her again.

Her touch was not unwelcome that night. Nor was it unexpected. Molly's visit to him in hospital during his recovery from Mary’s gunshot was like the breaking of a dam for them. Sherlock remembered waking one morning from a morphine-induced stupor to see Molly curled up in the visitors' chair and using his mattress as a makeshift pillow. The state of her hair revealed to him the fact she'd been there the whole night. He didn't know if it was the morphine or pity or just plain curiosity which caused him to reach out and thread his fingers through her hair. It was as soft as he imagined, strains sliding though his fingers like silk tendrils.

The sensation caused her to make a slow transition from sleep to wake rather than shoot up with the shock of his touch. That shock came later when the small smile on her face fell the moment she realised where she was. Contentment replaced with an anger similar to that which burned in her eyes the day she slapped him for failing that drug test. For failing her.

"I meant to leave before you woke up." She said in using her professional tone while she stood and smoothed down the wrinkles in her shirt and pants.

"You can stay if you like." Sherlock found himself using his low, seductive tone, and paused, wondering if it truly was the morphine which had robbed him of his inhibitions or if it was something altogether different.

"No, Sherlock. I can't." The anger in her eyes was matched by the anger in her voice.

Resigned, all Sherlock could offer was an "ok" and she turned and headed out the door.

Something made her stop before leaving, something made her say, "just because you almost died doesn't mean I can forgive you."

A bigger man, or at least one with more emotional maturity would have left it at that, maybe accepted her feelings with a simple "ok", but emotional maturity was not one of Sherlock Holmes' many gifts. Instead of accepting her words at face value, he couldn't let her get away with what he saw to be a blatant lie.

"You're wrong."

"Excuse me?"

"Not only can you forgive me Molly, you already have."

"Shut up."

He used the bed adjuster to raise himself to sitting, gearing himself up for a fight, "You've spent every night in this room since I was re-admitted six days ago. You might plan to leave before I wake up but you can't hide the strands of your hair I've found or the smell of your shampoo in my sheets.  And before you slept in my room, you'd sit outside. That one wasn't so hard to deduce, one of the nurses told me - a fill-in who you obviously hasn't had the chance to ask not to tell me like you had with all the others."

She shook her head. "I hate you."

"Molly, you've kept vigil at my bedside and gone to great lengths to keep it from me. I'd say that shows you definitely do not hate me."

Molly advanced on him. "Perhaps, but it doesn't show I've forgiven you for throwing away years of hard fought sobriety and risking turning back into that junkie I met on my first day at Bart's. A man who was so desperate to escape the confines of his mind he'd pollute it with anything he could get his hands on. A shell of a man. You'd risk everything you've become - or worse - risk dying - just for a case. How stupid would I be if I was willing to forgive you for that?"

"I think you are exactly that stupid, Molly Hooper."

And with that the dam broke, and Sherlock's heart ached at the sight of each of her tears.

"I am. I am that stupid. I do forgive you. And I hate myself for it."

Molly all but collapsed in the visitors' chair, a mixture of physical and emotional exhaustion. Sherlock couldn't help himself, reaching out to wipe each tear as it fell from her cheek.

Without thinking, he replaced his hands with his lips, kissing the places where her tears fell. Molly first closed her eyes to savour the feeling, but soon pulled away, unwilling to allow anything more than chaste lips on salty cheeks.

Wordlessly, she left him alone.

Molly didn't return to the hospital again.

But something passed between them that day, an unspoken acknowledgement that their relationship had begun to change.

Once he left hospital, he found himself making a pilgrimage to her flat more regularly than he'd care to admit to himself. At first he'd find a pretense - a book he wanted to borrow or a case that had him on that side of London. But after a while he'd just stride in and flop down on her lounge.

Pretense or no, their routine would be the same. Molly would act as if he wasn't there and he would enjoy the quiet companionship he'd be missing since John moved out and retreat into his mind palace. Every once and a while he'd make some exclamation related to his current train of thought, and Molly would stop whatever she was doing, join him on the lounge and let him explain his latest discovery. Often it was related to his current case, but other times it was a scientific theory or once a reaction to the poor quality of the detectives depicted on a show she'd made him watch days ago - almost like he'd been replaying the episode in his head. 

As they would sit on the lounge together, the outside of their legs would brush, but neither of them would make a move apart. More and more they became comfortable with occasional contact, hands brushing while they washed dishes together, or lingering on each other’s arms after helping the other shrug into their coat on the way out to dinner at Angelo's.

So when Molly placed a soft hand on his shoulder, bringing him back to her after he was lost in the memory of Magnussen's murder, Sherlock found it to be a welcome relief.

And when she looked him without disgust but with compassion and, he hoped, love, there was no wonder Sherlock found himself kissing her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh this poor forgotten fic! I've been so busy with everything else I've completely neglected to update the first fic I've ever posted! So here's a new chapter. Enjoy!

“You can go in now.” The nurse gave him a warm smile as she left Molly’s room.

With all the medical procedures completed, all that was left was to wait until she woke up. Sherlock was torn between competing impulses. On one hand, he wanted to rush to her side, to take her hand in his and stroke her too-pale cheek until she woke. On the other, he desperately wanted to retreat, not physically, but into the comforting alcoves of his mind-palace. 

From the day he met her, Molly had always had a place there. At first, it was a mere notebook, a recitation of facts that he knew would come in handy when he worked with her: 

Molly Louise Hooper:

Birthday 27 March 1979 (acknowledge but leave for John to make a fuss). 

Takes her coffee white without sugar (offer to make her one once a week, more if favours are required). 

Hums 1990s pop-tunes when she’s concentrating (often Britpop: Oasis, Blur, The Verve – unnecessary knowledge, flag for deletion).

Only child, both parents dead (March is a bad month for her, remember not to be so much of an arse).

Has a standing lunch date with Mina from accounting every Thursday (request any assistance before 12 or after 1:30).

Owns a cat but would love a dog, preferably something large like a Labrador or a Golden Retriever (note to check her opinion of Irish Setters)

Has terrible taste in men (this information resists any persisted attempts at deletion, do not investigate why).

Over time, the observations moved from a list of facts in one corner of his mind palace to a record of memories and moments. One morning, she came into the lab so dishevelled he couldn’t help but deduce what had happened to her. Her hair wasn’t her usual straight, but instead had a waviness that bordered on unkempt: hairdryer broken. Her cardigan was pulled tightly around her, although he could see the tell-tale stains on her collar.

The obvious deduction was that she’d spilled her coffee - except she had the wide-eyes of someone on a caffeine buzz. No, Frank from accounts-receivable had run into her – flat-white first. Molly still held his business card in her left hand, crumpled enough to show she wasn’t interested in either offer of dinner or dry-cleaning reimbursement.

Throwing the card in the rubbish, Molly placed her mobile phone down on the counter with a sigh as she checked the screen for signs of life. Sherlock could tell she had dropped it in a puddle after the shock of Frank’s impromptu baptism-by-coffee.

Locking eyes with her across the lab, Sherlock opened his mouth the share with her his impressive list of deductions. But he fell silent. Molly wore a fierce look on her face. It was a look he had seen before - her “I’ve got no time for your shit” look. This time, it was powerful enough to stop him in his tracks.

That morning, Sherlock recorded that look in his mind palace for future reference. Not only that, but he had preserved an image of her, exactly as she looked that morning, hair wet and coffee stained.

That was the first time Molly Hooper visited his mind palace in full-living colour, but it wouldn’t be the last. By the time Mary shot him, Sherlock had collected so many moments from his time with Molly that even under the extreme stress of a near-fatal wound, he was able to recreate her perfectly.

It was what kept him alive when Mary’s bullet would otherwise have killed him.

And now here she was, teetering between life and death.

This is exactly what he had been trying to protect her from, ever since Moriarty’s broadcast – or maybe even before – ever since the night before the broadcast when, certain that he was about to be sent to his doom, he did one more selfish act.

He kissed Molly.

And she kissed him back.

And soon they were in her room, and on her bed, and Sherlock couldn’t care less what the consequences would be, because right then, he was a dead man walking. Still walking. Still breathing. And with Molly’s lips on his, and her body pinned between himself and the mattress, he was feeling very much alive.

He wondered if she expected him to be gentle, to savour the experience, to draw out what was quite possibly his last few moments of pleasure before the slow unending torture of six months in Eastern Europe. Part of him wanted to.

But another part was so desperate for human contact, knowing it would be his last, as well as his first for years (Janine didn’t count – and The Woman had all but been deleted), there was no need for anything other than taking her in the moment, artlessly and selfishly.

Molly wasn’t complaining. He had always credited her with an extreme sense of empathy, and in that moment, he didn’t need to tell her what he needed. She let him pour into her body all of his pain and worry and headache at leaving London. He kissed her with lips that would never again feel the chill of a January morning in Hyde Park, he worshipped her with hands which would never again flag down a black cab, he studied her face until he knew it as perfectly as the map of the Underground.

And afterwards, she cried the tears he couldn’t while he pretended to sleep beside her. And soon he wasn’t pretending.

In the morning, a knock at the door woke them both. Sherlock quickly dressed while Molly pulled an old, tattered robe around herself.

He didn’t want to look at her as he turned to leave the room, but he couldn’t help it. She smiled the tight smile of someone trying vainly to hold back a tsunami of grief.

“Molly-” he began.

She shook her head, “anything you say will sound like goodbye.”

He nodded. And left her flat for the last time.

But, of course it wasn’t the last time. Moriarty’s broadcast saw to that.

As soon as he landed, Sherlock ordered Mycroft to give him a status report on all of his people. Of course John and Mary were waiting for him on the tarmac – they hadn’t had a chance to leave. Mrs Hudson was under guard at Baker Street and Lestrade was on route, having stopped by Bart’s to collect Molly.

It seemed that his flat, the one he’d so resigned himself never to grace with his presence again, was to become their makeshift centre operations for the time being.

Within an hour after the broadcast, the lounge room was abuzz with plans and discussions, theories and Mrs Hudson’s theatrics.

He knew where Molly was at all time. Somehow his body had become attuned to hers. She mostly kept to herself. At times, she busied herself in the kitchen with Mrs Hudson, at others she stood by the window in the lounge room, but mostly, she sat alone in Sherlock’s favourite armchair, watching the events unfold.

They hadn’t yet spoken, so taken up with the planning of what to do next, Sherlock hadn’t had the chance to acknowledge with more than one charged look when Lestrade slapped him on the back, congratulating him for returning to the land of the living – again.

After several hours, it was decided that the best course of action was none at all. Mycroft’s people were following up all of their leads, and so all that was left for Sherlock to do was to make sure his people were safe. Lestrade was to go and stay with the Watsons for the time being, while Molly was to stay at Baker Street. Sherlock deliberately didn’t look at Molly when this arrangement was decided. He didn’t know what he hoped to see, but he knew that he was afraid to see it whatever it was.

And with that, everyone left.

Baker Street had cleared out leaving them alone for the first time since he left her flat. It was only that morning, but it could just as easily have been weeks ago with all that had happened that day. There was a tension between them, too much unspoken, too hard to express. Sherlock knew he'd have to try, and began with something practical.

"So..." He began, Molly's eyes meeting his expectedly, "Mrs Hudson has set up John's old room for you." He nodded towards the stairs.

"John's room." She echoed without any hint of disappointment.

"I-didn't-want-to-presume" Sherlock blurted out at near inhuman speed.

"Sure," she said, turning to head up the stairs, hiding her face so as to hide her emotions, which Sherlock was desperate to read.

"Molly," his tone stopped her before his hand on her wrist did. "About last night..." He trailed off, perhaps the first time he'd ever found himself searching for the right words, "I know it was a unique situation, facing my own death, and I do hope not to find myself in such a position again. But last night was-"

 "-a mistake?" Molly offered.

  "-perfect" Sherlock finished and both looked at each other with stunned expressions similar to those shared in this room the last time Molly had incorrectly finished one of Sherlock's sentences.

"Perfect?" Molly repeated as if English were her second language and she didn’t grasp the meaning.

"Yes."

His hand on her wrist moved to trace patterns on her palm while his lips found hers and showed her a depth of emotion he would never be able to express in mere words.

In the two months she lived at Baker Street, Molly never did sleep in John's old room. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Miabicicletta not only for writing some of my most favourite Sherlolly fics (seriously, why are you reading my stuff when you should be reading hers!!!), but for commenting on this fic today - inspiring me to update it!
> 
> If you have a fic of mine you'd like to see updated, send me a comment and I'll add it to the list - as you might have noticed, I'm challenging myself to post a chapter of a WiP or a short fic every day in November! Wish me luck!
> 
> Also - this is the third chapter in three days I've had to post an Angst warning on - what on earth is wrong with me???

Transfixed on Molly’s small form, still hidden beneath a hospital blanket, breathing tubes and IV lines, Sherlock didn’t notice that he was no longer alone in the doorway until the firm hand of John Watson grasped his shoulder. Sherlock met his friend’s eyes, wide with concern, and observed his ruffled clothes and unkempt hair. He’d hurried to get there, and it seemed from the coffee stains on his shirt, and the lines under his eyes, he’d been there for a while. 

Mary was at his side, her mouth drawn in a tight line.

“How’s she doing?” John asked, eyes flicking to Molly.

Sherlock didn’t answer, gesturing vaguely in the direction of her chart, which John promptly studied, brow furrowed in concentration.

Mary pulled Sherlock into a hug. “It seems odd to be saying ‘congratulations’,” she said into his shoulder.

Sherlock pulled away. “Yes. It is odd.”

But then, their relationship was always going to be some version of ‘odd’.

For the longest time, Sherlock tried denying what had been plainly obvious – Molly’s residence at Baker Street wasn’t out of some logistical need for her protection. As the days stretched into weeks and months, and it became clear that the Moriarty broadcast was nothing more than a prank orchestrated by some bored hackers and a Moriarty look-alike, Sherlock had become accustomed to Molly’s presence in his flat, in his home-

-in his bed.

Her warm presence beside him in the morning, her hair fanning out over the pillow towards him, the hitch in her breath as he would kiss her neck telling him that she was beginning to wake up, her low, sleepy moan as his hands traced patterns in their slow worship of her body.

There was never any doubt in is mind that Molly would stay at Baker Street – long after the threat had passed. The only problem was finding an excuse that would fool John, Mary, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and any curious passer-by who would be keen to use that information to their advantage.

He didn’t want Molly used as his pressure point.

“But there wasn’t a threat, Moriarty is gone,” Molly protested when Sherlock told her of his plan late one night as they ate re-heated pad thai straight from the take away containers.

Sherlock put his food on the table, rounding on her, and gently taking hers out of her hand. He placed a hand on either side of her face, looking deeply into her eyes.

“What about the next one?” he asked.

Molly closed her eyes in silent agreement, her forehead gently touching his.

He knew she understood.

And for a while, all was fine. Molly kept up the pretence of her flat on Montague street, but would spend every night at Baker Street – even those when Sherlock was out of town on a case.

And one morning when Molly’s cat Toby almost gave the game away, revealing to John by his presence at Baker Street that Molly had never gone home, a well-practiced lie rolled off his tongue.

“It’s a stray.”

John’s eyebrow raised quizzically.

“A stray?” He surveyed the cat, “A well-fed, well-groomed stray?”

“Yes.”

John wasn’t buying it. “A well-fed, well-groomed stray who looks suspiciously like Molly’s cat Toby?”

“All cats look the same.”

John waited in silence for some form of truth. Sherlock gave him half. “I became accustomed to company.”

In the end, it only took a few lies, half-truths and a bit of creativity to keep his relationship with Molly a secret.

That was, until the morning Molly woke up, pale-faced, eyes wide, and proceeded to run to the bathroom. Her departure was followed by the unmistakable sound of vomit.

When it happened again the next morning, they assumed she had caught a bug.

But when two mornings became three, and three became four, then five, it only took a trip to Boots Chemist to prove what they’d both suspected.

Molly was pregnant.

“Where is she?”

Back in the hospital, Mary had her hand on Sherlock’s arm. A trained nurse as well as a mother, she would know the risks as well as anyone.

Sherlock wouldn’t take his eyes of Molly, so small, so pale. 

“In the pre-term nursery. They’re running some tests.”

Mary nodded. John replaced Molly’s chart and came to join them. A sign of support.

“Have you seen her?” he asked.

Sherlock slowly shook his head.

“I can’t,” he finally admitted, “there’s no way to show them that I’m her father.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 5 of my NaNoWriMo challenge - thanks to all who have read and commented my fics so far. It's a huge encouragement!!
> 
> Trigger warning for high-risk pregnancy, discussions of pregnancy complications and talk of potential pregnancy loss.

“What do you mean there’s no way to show you’re the father?” John asked, concern and mild annoyance in his tone. But annoyed at the Hospital or at him, Sherlock couldn’t tell.

“I meant exactly what I said,” Sherlock’s voice was cold, colder than he expected it to be.

“What about a paternity test?” Mary supplied.

“Those take weeks,” John said, his eyes glancing over to Molly. There was no mistaking the fear that small gesture revealed. If she didn’t wake up in the next day or two, there was no knowing if she would wake up at all.

“But on Molly’s prenatal forms – surely she wrote something about the father, something that points to you?” Mary asked.

Sherlock shook his head slowly from side to side. “All her forms say ‘father unknown’.”

John’s attention turned back from Molly’s frail form to Sherlock. His eyes steel, accusing.

“Why on earth would she do that?” John asked.

“Because I asked her to.”

So worried was Sherlock about the dangers of the child being linked to him that he went to great lengths to keep Molly’s pregnancy a secret – even from those he trusted the most.

At first, Sherlock had tried keeping John from Bart’s, coming up with odd errands for him to run, or dead leads to trace whenever a case had them needing her assistance. But it only took a matter of months before even a master liar like him ran out of excuses. Resigned, he realised that trying to hide the growing evidence of Molly’s pregnancy was soon going to become impossible. So one morning, when Molly was five months along, Sherlock gave in, but not before he and Molly had decided on a “cover story”.

“He won’t buy it,” Molly had said the night before as she pulled back the duvet and slid into bed.

“Of course he will,” said Sherlock as he did the same. “John is a great many things, but sceptical is not one of them.”

Molly curled towards him, placing her head on his chest. Sherlock’s arm curled protectively around her, enjoying the feel of her growing belly against his side. Contented, his breathing began to slow and he was almost asleep when Molly spoke again.

“Why don’t we just tell him the truth?”

He could have given her a dozen reasons, all well-reasoned and logically presented. But instead he simply said, “We can’t.”

The hitch in her breath told him how disappointed she was, and he hated to disappoint her, but his need to keep her safe far outweighed his desire to keep her happy.

And so that’s why Molly, when faced with a wide-eyed John in Bart’s morgue that day had told him a simple lie, or more accurately a half-truth. Sherlock insisted when he came up with the line “the father’s anonymous” - vague enough for John to erroneously fill in the gap and assume that Molly had utilised a sperm donor. Months later, that’s exactly how Sherlock was to explain it to John when the truth eventually came out.

Lying to their friends was easy, in many ways, compared to the complications that arose when Molly lied to the physicians treating her. For one, it meant that as a single mother, she had to attend all prenatal screenings, checkups and counselling sessions alone.

Sherlock knew how sad it made her, how lonely she felt in the prenatal information session – surrounded by happy couples, each telling their increasingly benign stories for how their relationships began, how long they had been together, what plans they had to build a nursery, what their plans were for pain relief during labour-

All while Molly sat silently.

He knew it wore on her every time she went to the clinic and a new midwife would read her file. The raised eyebrow when they came to the line “father unknown”, the judgement, the silent questioning, all which Molly took knowing full well that not only did she bloody-well did know who the father was, but she would be going back to his flat to tell him everything that had happened at the appointment, everything he had missed.

The sonagraph image of their child, presented in living colour for them for the first time – kicking, squirming, heart beating steadily, soundly, strongly.

And other details – weeks of gestation, measurements of fundal heights, and minor health issues – the doctors were keeping an eye on the platelet count in Molly’s blood – for some reason, it kept falling, but neither they nor Molly seemed concerned.

Her only concern was how to hide from Sherlock how much it saddened her that he couldn’t be with her at the screenings.

She never did tell him. But it never stopped him figuring it out – with nothing more than a small bit of help from John.

It was about a month ago. Molly had just entered into the final trimester, and even though she kept up her routine at Bart's, there was a clear discomfort in the way she walked, a slowing in her steps, a slight hitch in her breath every once in a while to indicate some sort of baby-related pain in her back or hips – that was where she was feeling it the most.

One morning, after delivering a file of blood analysis into the lab for Sherlock and John’s latest case, Sherlock noticed John was watching Molly leave rather than paying attention to the file she had given them – a file that had the potential to crack their current case wide open.

Sherlock slammed the file shut.

“Problem?” John asked.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” he said, tilting his head towards the door out of which Molly had just taken her leave.

“It’s just,” John paused, collecting his thoughts, “I’m worried about her.”

“Worried? What’s there to worry about?”

“She seems so tired already, and this is just the beginning. There’s late night feeds and days on end with a crying, unsettled, unhappy newborn.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Not every child is as difficult as Caitlin was,” Sherlock could downplay it now John and Mary’s baby was almost one, and very nearly turning into a small human. But he did remember the dark rings under his friend’s eyes, the garbled half-complete sentences from a brain deprived of sleep.

“No.” John admitted, then added something that Sherlock had never considered, “Some are worse.”

“Oh,” was all he could muster.

“It nearly broke Mary – especially those early weeks when she said she felt like a glorified feeding machine – and she wasn’t alone.”

Sherlock knew that Molly wouldn’t be alone either, but honestly, he’d never before that moment considered how difficult it would be if she were.

“Parenting’s a team sport,” John added, then took the file off Sherlock and began to read its contents. 

Parenting was a team sport, and Sherlock hadn’t yet put on his team’s colours.

The conversation with John had played in his mind for weeks. He really hadn’t thought much beyond keeping Molly and the child safe in the short-term. Hadn’t considered the long-term consequences. What would happen when the child was born? Would they continue their ruse? Would the child be a Hooper and not a Holmes? And what about when it learned to speak? Would it call him Sherlock – or Daddy?

Two weeks of rumination later, Sherlock had made a decision, took a short trip to the Cotswolds, and was ready. He was just waiting for the right moment – the day the baby was born – that’s when he was going to ask her.

As it turns out, he did ask her on the day their baby was born – just not in the way he had planned.

And 8 weeks earlier than anyone had ever expected the baby to arrive.

Sherlock got the call at 8am – an unrecognisable number, but from the area code and digits, he knew it originated at Bart’s Hospital.

“Mr Holmes?”

“Yes”

“I’m calling on behalf of Molly Hooper, she has been admitted to the emergency ward and ask that we inform you that-”

Time slowed, although Sherlock heard the words, their meaning and the full gravity of the situation crashed down upon him with the utterance of every syllable from the voice at the other end of the line.

Molly was in the middle of an autopsy when the junior lab tech on duty – Stephen? Or was it Sean – head the clanging of her medical tray as she gripped it too hard for balance, followed by the jangle of scalpels, scapulae, and bone saws falling to the floor. As they called for a gurney to come down from the E.R., Molly’s face turned deathly pale and she struggled to breathe. As they lifted her into the gurney they saw the reason for Molly’s sallow-face.

Blood. A lot of it.

A kindly-faced nurse loomed into her view. In soft tones, she promised Molly that everything would be ok, and asked if there was anyone she would like them to call.

For Molly, there would only ever be one person.

“-pre-ecclemsia,” The voice on the line continued as Sherlock returned to full consciousness “and a suspected placental abruption. Her platelet condition will complicate matters, of course.”

“Of course,” Sherlock parroted back, although he didn’t understand. From all Molly had mentioned, the platelet issue was a minor inconvenience that meant she couldn’t have an epidural, not a complicated matter at all. “Is she – I mean are they – is the baby, and is Molly-“

His voice caught in his throat, for once the ordinarily prolix Detective was unable to express a coherent thought.

“They’re stable at the moment, though they are considering a delivery this afternoon.”

It took Sherlock a moment to catch on, “A delivery, of what?”

The nurse’s bemused silence told him everything he’d missed.

A delivery. Today. 8 weeks early. 

Sherlock had already catagorised all the risk factors for premature birth, facts gathered from all the reading he had done since the day he and Molly found out about the life growing inside of her. And while he was tempted to open to vault, to review all the statistics and survival rates, the sheer panic and fear from what he’d find left that part of his mind palace sealed shut – for now.

There was only one thing he could do.

“I’ll be right there.” Sherlock ended the call and rushed downstairs to grab the first cab.

On the way, he called John. All he could manage was, “Bart's. Now.”

When John protested about something to do with Mary and work, Sherlock added, “It’s Molly.” He knew that was all John would need to know.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End! I hope there's enough sweetness to make up for the Angst.  
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos - they mean the world to me!

Sherlock and John stood outside the pre-term nursery, staring through the window at the impossibly small creature lying in the humidicrib. A pink hat gave away the baby’s gender: a girl.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” John said.

 “What?” asked Sherlock absently as he stared at the tubes running into her nose and mouth, counting each breath that inflated her doll-sized belly.

 “That something so small has so much power,” John explained.

 Sherlock turned to his friend, his eyes narrowing. “She’s attached to tubes for food an oxygen, that doesn’t seem too powerful to me.”

 John shook his head, “You’ll learn.” He patted Sherlock on the arm, a paternal gesture. John had only been a father for a year, but of course, he had been acting like Sherlock’s own father for much longer than that.

 “Maybe you’re right,” Sherlock conceded, “but I have learned one thing today.”

 “What’s that?” John asked, unable to hide the intrigue in his voice.

 “Apparently, babies come with hats.”

 John exhaled in mirthless humour.

 The two resumed comfortable silence  - or, a silence that was as comfortable as possible considering the fact that one of the men was on the verge of possibly losing the two people he loved most in the world.

 Sherlock caught the thought before it evaporated. Yes, John was right. Something so small was indeed so powerful. Tiny fingers, translucent eyelids, not enough visceral fat on her body, but still coated in a fine sheen of protective hair – the baby didn’t look like the ones he’d seen on TV, yet, to him she was impossibly perfect. He couldn’t wait to see her with Molly.

 Molly. His face fell at the thought. Time had resumed its fateful pace, if she didn’t wake up soon, there would be no certainty that she would. She had lost too much blood, and in turn, her brain had lost too much oxygen in the process of rescuing their baby from a womb which could no longer support her.

 The baby’s life may have come at the price of Molly’s – but Sherlock knew she definitely wouldn’t have wanted it the other way around.

 John, who had been reading Sherlock’s face intensely, broke his reverie.

 “You know, if you get Mycroft to call, I’m sure they’ll let you in to see her. Maybe hold her.”

 “No,” Sherlock said with a force that shocked even him.

 John’s questions were written all over his face. They were as plain to Sherlock as his friend’s doubt at Sherlock’s paternal connection, his fear for what would happen if Molly didn’t wake up soon, his worry that the baby as well as her mother would make it through the day.

 “Molly will be the first one to hold our baby,” Sherlock finally said.

 John nodded. Of course he would understand.

 Sherlock took a moment to consider how much of a shock the day’s events must have been for his friend. He smiled as he remembered the way John and Mary found out that the baby was his.

 Sherlock couldn’t remember much of the ride in the cab from Baker Street to Bart’s. He couldn’t remember paying the cabbie, or running through the doors to Emergency. But he would always remember the moment his eyes locked on Molly’s as she lay on her side on a hospital gurney, her face almost as white as the sheets under her.

 “That bad, eh?” She smiled, reading his face with the skill he had read hers a hundred times. Sherlock wondered if this was what it was like to feel so exposed under someone’s gaze.

 “No!” he lied entirely unconvincingly, changing his tune when he could see how she wasn’t buying it “Well, yes, you do look terrible.”

 She laughed weakly. “I knew I could trust you to tell it to me straight.”

 Molly was attached to monitors that charted her own heart-rate as well as the baby’s. The constant and steady beeps and pings sounded comfort for the moment.

 “How is everything?” he gestured at her belly.

 “Well, it seems little Pumpkin and I have reached the end of our mutual attachment.”

 “Pumpkin?”

 “Butternut,” she added. “That’s what I’ve been calling her in my head,” Molly said, absently rubbing her belly.

 “Oh,” Sherlock smiled. Trust Molly to come up with something as unique, bright and cheerful as the clothing she always wore, and the personality she naturally exuded.

 “What do you call her?” Molly asked.

 “I’ve honestly never thought about it. I just thought we’d name her once she arrived.”

 “Well, you’d better get thinking, because from my guess you’ve got about an hour.”

 “An hour?” He knew the fact of Molly’s pregnancy, had experienced her hormonal changes, her sicknesses, moods, and sex-drive fluctuations. He’d watched as the child slowly expanded her belly, making its presence felt through ripples and kicks under the surface. But somehow he’d never emotionally processed the reality –

 - in a little over an hour, they were going to have a child.

 It was in that moment that Sherlock realised he couldn’t wait any longer.

 "Molly, there’s something I – ah – well –“

 Sherlock stumbled. Over the years, cracks had appeared in his once impenetrable armour, letting people in – first John, and now Molly. But still, emotions didn’t come easy to Sherlock, nor were they easily expressed.

 “What is it?” Molly asked, her eyes wide with worry.

 “Molly,” Sherlock cleared his voice, he wanted to make sure what he said, perhaps the most important words he’d ever say, were said as clearly as possible, “Molly, I don't want this baby to come into the world as anything other than my child, and I don't want to wait any longer to let the world know that I love you Molly Hooper."

 What Sherlock didn’t know at the time was the John and Mary had arrived and were waiting behind him for a chance to see Molly.

 “I knew it!” came Mary’s voice, loud, confident and joyful from behind Sherlock.

 “Shhh,” John silenced his wife, though his eyes were wide in disbelief.

 “Molly Hooper, will you marry me?”

 Molly was silent.

 “Well?”

 Instead of joy, there was concern on her face. Not the reaction he had been expecting.

 “What is it?” he asked.

“You’re not just proposing to me because I’m in the hospital? I mean, it’s not the kind of thing you’re doing in a moment of stress and emotion and will regret in the morning?”

 From his pocket, Sherlock pulled out a box, handing it to Molly.

 “I’ve had this for a while.”

 Inside was a modest diamond, small and dainty. The perfect size for her hand.

 Molly’s breath caught, “It’s um –“ she began, then stopped herself, “Wait – this wasn’t Janine’s was it?”

 “I was thinking the same thing!” Mary called again from the peanut gallery.

 “No!” Sherlock looked defensively from Molly to Mary and back again. He took a step closer to Molly, handing her the small, black box. “It was my Grandmother’s,” he explained. “She gave it to my father who gave it to my mother who has given it to me to give to you.”

 Molly’s eyes began to water as she stared at the ring.

 Sherlock tried to be patient, which lasted all of half a minute before he asked, “So what do you say?”

 “Sherlock, I-“

 Molly was cut off by the sound of alarms, the heart-rate monitor spiked.

 “The baby?” Sherlock asked Molly. But there was no response. With eyes shut tight, her body began convulsing.

 Molly’s monitor had triggered the alarm.

 An ER team rushed in, three people checking Molly all over, rushing, prodding, gauging, deciding.

 “We have to operate, now,” a faceless medic barked.

 And like that, Molly was wheeled away.

 The ring box fell to the floor.

 Hours later, as they stood watching the small shallow breaths of Sherlock’s daughter through the window of the preterm nursery, John turned to his friend, handing him a small object.

 “I believe you’ll be needing this,” John said.

 “I hope so,” Sherlock replied.

 “I hope so too, mate. Even if I never thought I’d see the day.”

 “I did tell you that when we first met that I considered myself married to my work,” Sherlock said, and in his mind travelled back to that evening in Angelo’s.

 “Is that why you didn’t tell me? That I’d be disappointed that you had changed, that you had found something – someone – outside the work that made you happy?”

 Sherlock thought for a moment. He’d never considered it like that.

 “No, I don’t think that’s it.” He stopped, replaying every scene in his head of every time he had hidden his love for Molly in John’s presence. In his mind, he every time he and Molly had exchanged silently meaningful glances in the presence of John, every time he and John were on the way out from Bart’s only for Sherlock to feign a mobile phone call, waving his friend on so he could return to chat to Molly, or the times he had told John he needed to cross-check a result with Molly, only to double-back into her lab for one stolen kiss before proceeding with his case.

 Why did he go to so much trouble when just telling his friend would be painful, perhaps, embarrassing, maybe, but easier in the long-run.

 “Reality, John.”

 “Sorry, what?”

 “Reality. I was afraid of it.”

 “You sound like some kind of tortured artist, or a teenager writing terrible poetry. What on earth are you getting at?”

 Sherlock stilled, frustrated at the fact he was failing so spectacularly to express his meaning.

 “If you and Mary knew about Molly and I, it would make it real.”

 “And this isn’t evidence enough?” John gestured at the baby though the glass.

 “Well, that’s precisely my point. Keeping my relationship secret, even if it meant keeping our child a secret meant I wouldn’t have to face the reality of failure.”

 “I’m still not following you.”

 “I think it won’t surprise you to discover, I’m a pretty lousy boyfriend. I’m not going to be much better as a husband,” Sherlock’s voice caught in his throat. Molly would have to wake first before that happened. “And as a father – I’ll probably fail at that, too.”

 John waited a moment, letting Sherlock’s words sink in before he replied.

 “Sherlock,” he began in a tone of comfort and support, “You are definitely going to fail as a father.”

 That was not what Sherlock expected to hear. “Thank you very much for your vote of confidence, John.”

 John continued, unperturbed, “And, you’re definitely going to be a lousy husband.”

 “Again, thank you,” Sherlock’s sarcasm hid his hurt. He turned to leave, but John caught his friend’s arm in a vice-grip, holding him in place.

 John beckoned Sherlock closer, as if revealing a secret.

 “But let me tell you one thing: we all are. What matters is that we try. And we keep trying.”

 Sherlock sighed in relief. John’s words, delivered as they were in his trademark acerbic way, had definitely delivered the comfort he needed.

 “Thank you John,” he nodded, “Got any other tips for me?”

 “Nah, I know you, and I know Molly, and I know that Molly is the only one who’s ever been able to slap any sense into you – literally sometimes! I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

 Sherlock hoped his friend was right.

 The two men walked back to Molly’s room, grabbing some coffee for Mary on the way.

 “Any change?” John asked Mary the question that Sherlock was too frightened to.

 Mary shook her head, “not yet,” she said, always putting a positive spin on things.

 The three sat in silence for a while, before Sherlock asked Mary something that had been bothering him for hours.

 “How did you work it out?”

 “Trade secret,” Mary smiled conspiratorially.

 “Oh, come on!” Sherlock batted her arm gently. “For future reference – you’ll never know when it will come in handy on a case.” It was a weak excuse, but he hoped Mary was in the mood to play along.

 “Guess,” Mary taunted.

 “I will not-“ Sherlock started.

 “-was it Molly’s lipstick on his collar?” John cut him off.

 “No.”

 John tried again, “Sherlock buying Molly coffee when we’d visit Bart’s?”

 “He’s been doing that for years,” Mary replied. “Just not when you’re there with him.” Mary added when John’s confusion was evident.

 Sherlock nodded in confirmation.

 “Was Molly’s science Journals at Baker Street?” Sherlock added, not one to let his friend beat him at his own game.

 Mary crooked her eyelid “Seriously? Journals? That’s a tell for you?”

 “It isn’t for you?” Sherlock retorted.

 “Was it the time Molly said Sherlock used her flat as a bolt hole?” John asked.

 “No, but I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” Mary added.

 Sherlock smirked, “Trade secret.”

 John and Mary shared an exasperated eyeroll. Some secrets would remain that way for now, it seemed.

 “It was her perfume,” Mary revealed.

 Sherlock and John looked at each other as if to say “of course.”

 “Ah! There’s always something I miss!” Sherlock exclaimed. “But what about the perfume?” Sherlock asked.

 “I didn’t understand why you kept smelling like it. Even on days when I knew you hadn’t been anywhere near Bart’s.”

 “Maybe I’d picked up the scent from my bolt hole?”

 “Maybe. But it didn’t explain why there was a half-used bottle of it in your bathroom, though.”

 Mary grinned like the cat who ate the canary.

 “Well done, wife,” John said, kissing Mary on the cheek.

 “Thank you, husband.”

 The three were lost in the humour of the moment that they didn’t notice the arrival of the midwife, and with her, the large portable crib in which Sherlock and Molly’s baby lay, still sleeping, still attached to tubes.

 All three fell silent. Mary’s eyes watered in the empathetic way all mothers did when they imagined their own children undergoing some kind of trauma or difficulty. John placed an arm around her in comfort.

 There was no one to comfort Sherlock.

 She small, pump woman in her late 50s looked at the scene before her. Her tag read Nurse Anderson. Sherlock hoped she wasn’t a relative of anyone he knew.

 “I’m afraid you’ll all have to leave. The baby needs skin-to-skin contact with her mother to regulate her bodyheat. Only family can stay,” she said in a stern yet understanding Scottish brogue.

 Sherlock moved to leave before John and Mary did. John spoke up before Sherlock reached the door.

 “He’s her fiancée,” John explained.

 “Is that right?” Nurse Anderson said, looking Sherlock up and down, as if to assess if he was any threat.

 Sherlock only nodded, unable to bring himself to assert the truth of something he wasn’t entirely sure of himself.

 “Then you can make yourself useful,” turning to Mary and John she added, “but you two will have to leave, that is, unless you’re the father?” She cocked an eye in John’s direction. It wasn’t entirely clear from the look on her face if she was joking or not.

 “That’s our cue to leave,” John explained to Sherlock. Both he and Mary pulled their friend into a tight hug before departing.

 Sherlock had never felt more alone, despite the fact that there were two other people in the room. Well, two people and an impossibly small baby, he corrected.

 The nurse removed Molly’s smock so that her chest was bare. Sherlock could see the way the skin of her belly, once taught with the baby, now hung loosely.

 “It’s also good for the mother,” she explained as she opened the side of the crib and, with hands that Sherlock hoped were as steady as a card-shark’s, lifted his daughter up to meet her mother. The two settling into each other, fitting together on the outside just as hours earlier they fit together on the inside.

 Nurse Anderson placed a hospital blanket over the two of them, making sure that the baby’s head had ample clearance. Sherlock noted for the first time that the feeding tube had been taken away, leaving only the small breathing tube around her nose.

 “Now, this is where you prove you’re not entirely useless,” her words were harsh, but her smile was warm. “Put a hand here,” she picked up Sherlock’s hand and placed it gently on the baby’s back.

 Sherlock’s breath caught as he felt the little body tremor beneath his hand.

 “Usually, we only do this when the mother is awake,” she explained, “but in this instance-“ She stopped herself short.

 Sherlock didn’t dare ask about what prognosis had been given. He didn’t need to, only nodding solemnly.

 “Right, so if you’re fine, I’ll be back in 15 minutes to check on you.” And with that she left.

 Looking at Molly as she slept, and their child, Sherlock knew there was no denying it now – reality had dawned on him, whether he was ready for it or not.

 Moments passed into minutes into what felt like hours to Sherlock as he searched for every detail, committing it to his perfect memory. He refused to admit it was because of what he feared – that this could be the one and only time the three of them were together as a family.

 Of course, it had to be less than 15 minutes, that’s what the nurse had said.

 As he catalogued Molly, the flicker of her eyes, the pallor of her skin, the rise and fall of her breath, something stopped him in his tracks. A small, weak, yet unmistakable voice.

 “Is that Pumpkin?” she whispered.

 Her eyes opened. She looked down at the small creature on her chest. Tears began to flow - for both her and Sherlock.

 “No, it’s not Pumpkin,” Sherlock answered her question, despite the fact that it really wasn’t meant as one.

 Molly’s eyes opened more, searching for an answer.

 “I was thinking of Isabelle,” he explained.

 “Isabelle?” Molly tried the name, and nodded.

 “Molly, meet Isabelle Victoria Hooper,” he said in mock-introduction.

 “Isabelle Victoria Holmes,” Molly corrected him.

\---

In the end the greatest threat to Molly's life as a result of her relationship with Sherlock didn't come from a master criminal like Moriarty, nor was it from a minor thug hell-bent on revenge, or even from Sherlock himself - at least not directly. The threat which had caused Molly to be rushed to casualty and rushed into emergency surgery came entirely from within, the small child that grew inside her, and the unexpected complications of her dramatic and early emergency caesarean.

As he stood in the doorway and gazed at her pale form clad in a hospital gown that only added to her appearance of helplessness, Sherlock wondered if it had all been worth it. If he knew that night over a year ago that his choices would lead them on a path that led to this day, would he change anything?

But as he watched his now-fiancée, awake, recovering, and feeding their precious, tiny daughter, Sherlock knew with utter, complete certainty –

 - he wouldn’t change a damn thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a post on Tumblr this week about how annoying some people find it when Sherlolly fics end with them married, with a child, and Molly takes Sherlock's name - but I had planned this ending long before the big brew-ha-ha, so it stays. 
> 
> :-P
> 
> Hope y'all like it. Thanks for reading!
> 
> PS - The line "babies come with hats" comes from The West Wing, and the idea for the proposal scene (which was the plot bunny that created this whole fic) came from Studio 60. Yes, I'm a fan of Aaron Sorkin's shows!


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